Lullaby for the Shattered Soul
by SirusPolaris
Summary: R&R Drowning mysteries of the lilting melody that drifts like smoke, and it's been there playing all along... Take heed of it, for smoke gets in your eyes. [COMPLETED]
1. Prelude

~Disclaimer:~ I do not own Cowboy Bebop. The fact that I have to tell you this rather worries me.  
  
A/N: Super-short PROLOGUE, not really a chapter.  
  
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Prelude  
  
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"Howdy, amigos!" a strident Spanish voice cheered over the fuzzy static of the old vid-screen onboard the Bebop. "How're all you 300,000 bounty hunters in the solar system doing?"  
  
"It's time for BIG SHOT! The show that brings you information about fugitives!" A feminine voice quickly replaced the Spanish man's, belonging to a curvy blonde in a skimpy cowgirl outfit and currently winking seductively at the camera, wielding a heavy western accent. "Hey, Punch, tell us who's up today!"  
  
A picture popped up on the screen, though partially distorted from the poor frequency. 'Must be a meteor shower in progress.' Jet thought absently, watching the television set with a look of boredom. 'Either that or Spike's kicked this piece of shit one too many times.'  
  
His eyelids drooped lazily and the fingers of his prosthetic arm twitched against his skin, as they often did when he was either thinking or tired. The man on 'Big Shot' continued, chirping out the bounty's stats in a cheerful Spanish tongue.  
  
"Shucks howdy! First off is this pretty little lady who goes by th' name of Three-Strikes-Mae. Her real name is Kirsche McMae, an' she's a wanted murderer all over th' galaxy!"  
  
The blonde broke in with a ditzy giggle as a distorted image of the bounty appeared on the screen. "Yessir! She's a top-class assassin with a whoppin' 29 million woolong-"  
  
The blonde woman's voice cut off abruptly as the vid-screen blinked out. Jet frowned at the blank screen, searching the old flat couch cushions for the remote, only to have it waggled tauntingly under his nose by a smirking woman with mauve hair.  
  
"Oi! Faye, I was watching that! God knows we could use an expensive bounty right about now."  
  
Faye shrugged her slender shoulders and plopped down on the weathered old couch next to Jet, stretching out and setting her boots on the coffee table. Like always, pockets were nearly empty, and food was getting scarce. They had all but depleted their emergency funds with bills from their last bounty fiasco, and Faye was certain that Jet was now feeding them stuff he found under the horribly discolored couch.  
  
No wait, she would have PREFERED the stuff under the couch to whatever he had been serving.  
  
"Not anymore, you're not. Without Spike around there's no use going after a bounty, anyways, especially a big one," the woman cast Jet a wry glance out of the corner of her eye before continuing. "Where did lunkhead run off to, anyways?"  
  
"He went to visit an old friend on Callisto, so he said." The ex-ISSP officer folded his arms across his heavily built chest and closed his eyes thoughtfully. "You know how he gets when we get nosey, so better just let it lie." 


	2. A Familiar Jazz

~Disclaimer:~ I do not own Cowboy Bebop or the song 'One Flight Down' by Norah Jones. ^___^ I love that song. HOWEVER the female with the mulberry hair belongs to ME! No touchie!  
  
A/N: Be kind and review. Gracias.  
  
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A Familiar Jazz  
  
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The thick, sultry sounds of jazz slowly lifted the gloomy atmosphere that seemed to forever surround the dank moon of Callisto. It seemed a forgotten melody, sounding sadly through the gritty slums and weighing hard on the minds of poverty-ridden men. The cold didn't quite help to raise the soul either; ice crusted the sidewalk and crunched under Spike's boots as he walked.  
  
The red-orange glow of a cigarette dimly depicted his features against the inky darkness of the Callisto night, hands thrust carelessly into his pockets, smoke clouding about his head and wafting lazily towards the stars as the lanky man continued on his lost accent to nowhere.  
  
Turning idly around a corner, Spike cast a weary glance toward a homely- looking tavern down the street, foreboding and ominous. Its doors were cracked and falling off their hinges and the windows were boarded up by thin pieces of plywood that had been covered in crude graffiti. But something about the flickering neon lights and the faintest thrums of a saxophone drew him closer, until he shrugged nonchalantly and led himself in.  
  
The thick smell of cigarette smoke hovered in the stuffy air and grew stale in his nostrils as he looked around, and the whole place seemed even more dank and murky than the outside world. Scarcely occupied and slowly rotting under time's unwavering hand, the tavern seemed to groan with untold age as the man slowly walked through.  
  
A small stage was set up near the back of the pub, and on it a thin, weathered-looking saxophone player played a melancholy melody that hung in the air like a fog. Spike made his way to the bar and sat, ordering himself a round and taking a long drag from his cigarette.  
  
He had come here to this God-forsaken moon meet a friend. It was true, in a way, but what his shipmates didn't know was that the 'friend' he was referring to was only a dirty grave marker, worn with the brittle wintry winds and laid low for many, many years. Spike was never the sentimental type; he barely gave a damn about anything let alone some frozen carcass. But this 'friend' of his was a comrade and a mentor, a good man who had taken the curveballs in stride, and even that deserved a certain amount of respect.  
  
He had stared at that stone for hours that seemed to drag on in the chilled air, nearly emptying his box of cigarettes and loosing the feeling in his fingers and toes. The grave looked forgotten, overgrown with frozen weeds and littered with papers and garbage that the wind had tossed their way.  
  
Spike had done his best to clean the grave, paying his respects for the name in the polished rock. After visiting the cemetery the cowboy wandered the streets of Callisto, looking to go no place in particular, only trying to rid himself of the borderline guilty feeling that seemed to seep between his ribs and haunt the back of his mind.  
  
Spike heaved a sigh and took a sip of the bourbon he had ordered, his tongue flinching as the strong alcohol filled his senses.  
  
'I hate it when I drink,' Spike thought absentmindedly, taking another sip. 'Such a stupid way out of problems. . .'  
  
Four rounds later, the tavern had started to empty out into an even darker Callisto night, leaving only those with no place to go. Waking him from his drunken stupor was a lone catcall from an obviously drunk man. Spike blinked and turned his head to the direction of the shout, only to let out a low whistle himself.  
  
On stage, the wiry saxophone player was introducing a young woman dressed in black. Unique mulberry locks curled around her shoulders and tumbled down her back to accent her natural curves, long bangs framed a pale face with fair features and striking blue eyes.  
  
It was oddity in itself to find a woman on Callisto, especially one so classy-looking as this; but there was something else that made Spike look again. . . Her face, her eyes, the way she carried herself with such elegance and refinement, they had some kind of evoking quirk to them, something he could vaguely remember.  
  
Julia. . .  
  
The name hit Spike's brain like chain lightning. Her sterling blue eyes, her reddened lips, her pale skin, all Julia's. The mulberry woman suddenly became the angel he had lost, her face no longer her own, but Julia's.  
  
His breath caught in his throat. His mind railed. His hands trembled. His empty glass clattered to the bar with a resounding 'clink!' as his eyes grew wide in shock. He knew that smile. He knew those eyes. All brought back in an overpowering wave under the golden spotlight. She drew the light to her and captured it, glowing with a molten gold halo in the dreary shadows. Had it really been three years since he had last seen that beautiful face?  
  
Julia.  
  
But with a single movement the vision was shattered, and the woman with the mulberry hair was herself again, seated at a scratched up upright piano and adjusting a microphone boom.  
  
Spike blinked in surprise. 'It had to be the bourbon,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. 'Damn, I hate it when I drink. . .'  
  
Though he tried hard to keep his gaze on the floor, on the bar, anywhere but the stage, his eyes moved on their own accord and became transfixed on the woman's every move. Her long fingers settled themselves over the keys of the old piano, gliding into soothing chords and teasing the ancient ivory keys into making sounds too bittersweet to be described. The woman leaned into each note, pouring her soul into the music so filled with bleakness and untold desolation.  
  
A soft snare was added to the background, filling the thin melody with a melancholy march that seemed to trudge on endlessly. With an almost inaudible sigh, the woman opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and began to sing.  
  
Spike was never a fan of female jazz singers. Heck, he wasn't a fan of females, period. But there was something about her voice, so sultry and lowly and filled with trouble, that made his ears long to drink more of the soft sorrowful sounds. The haunting tune weaved itself through the threads of his very being, tying itself tighter and tighter into his soul.  
  
This woman obviously wasn't Julia, but she possessed the same unknown quality that had drawn him to her so long ago. The mulberry woman's words seemed to etch themselves in his brain, striking a chord inside himself as he stared, lost in wonder and mesmerized by it all.  
  
"One flight down,  
  
There's a song on low.  
  
And your mind  
  
Just picked up on the sound,  
  
Now you know you're wrong.  
  
Because it drifts like smoke  
  
And it's been there  
  
Playin' all along.  
  
Now you know.  
  
Now you know. . ."  
  
Her movements were graceful as her spindly fingers danced skillfully on the familiar keys, stepping to a never-ending waltz softly accompanied by the husky tones of her soothing voice. She wasn't playing a song, she was playing a feeling. Several feelings all rolled into low bass notes and a lilting melody. It filled the lonely tavern with a feeling of hope in a cold world when the music swelled, and wrought it with regret when the woman's voice trembled. Time slowed. Time stopped.  
  
"The reeds and brass have been weaving,  
  
Leading into a single note. . ."  
  
The words echoed in Spike's mind, pulling at his insides and tearing at his thoughts. This sort of jazz was different. Different than the easy tunes he usually listened to. What sort of spell was this mulberry enchantress weaving? Like the ancient seamen's tales of beautiful sirens who's mysterious songs and feral smiles could entice a man to his death without a second thought, this siren was luring his mind away.  
  
'W-who is she?' Her endless blue eyes never opened, she seemed lost in a world far from this desolate moon, someplace closed off from the rest of the universe. He longed to be there with her.  
  
"In this place  
  
Where your arms unfold,  
  
Here at last, you see your ancient face.  
  
Now you know.  
  
Now you know.  
  
The cadence rolls in, broken.  
  
It plays it over and then goes. . .  
  
One flight down,  
  
There's a song on low.  
  
And it's been there  
  
Playin' all along,  
  
Now you know.  
  
Now you-"  
  
A shrill scream and the deafening thunder of a gunshot broke abruptly through the song, sending men scattering to get out of harm's way. Spike quickly snapped himself out of his dazed state as the world began to spin at a normal pace. The mulberry woman was clutching her right shoulder, trying to staunch the crimson rivulets that were making their way down her arm. Her spell was broken, and Spike's mind slowly began to process. A man stood in the doorway with his face in the shadows, gun raised and aimed for the woman's heart. 


	3. White Ivory, Black Ebony

~Disclaimer:~ I don't own Cowboy Bebop, but I do own the mulberry-haired woman. No touchie!  
  
A/N- Wow, another chapter done. ^_________^ This one was fun to write, though I've never actually authored a car chase before! Oh well. Reviews are greatly appreciated =P Flames are not.  
  
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White Ivory, Black Ebony  
  
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The man spoke in a language that Spike had never heard before, perhaps it was German, the thick and deep-throated syllables rolling off his tongue rapidly; but the terse tone of his voice confirmed that he was not happy. His voice was a low growl and his incomprehensible words were punctuated by threatening thrusts of his gun.  
  
The woman's eyes flickered dangerously, striking a symphony of memories and replaying them before Spike's eyes. Beautiful and deadly. He was lost in those eyes all over again.  
  
The two spoke softly in the same foreign tongue, snarling angrily at each other with coldness in their voices.  
  
Julia. . .  
  
'Christ, Julia!' And suddenly the poised gun was aimed for Julia. His Julia. Something in Spike's mind snapped violently, and he became angry. This man would never touch her. No one would. Not while he still breathed.  
  
The woman's voice dropped an octave and she spoke in a language he understood, her blue-flame eyes blazing icily. "Then I'll see you in Hell."  
  
More armed men filtered into the room, shouting foreign commands and firing randomly at the frightened drunkards who tried to fight their way out of the tavern. All hell broke loose. Spike grimaced angrily, drawing his gun from the holster under his jacket and returning the fire. He ducked down, pressing his slim frame against the wooden paneling of the counter, shielding himself from the insane shots.  
  
The angry explosions of gunfire replaced the somber melody as the men continued to fire in every direction; bottles shattered on the shelf and rained down on the bullet-riddled body of the barkeep, wood slivers chipped off of tables and chairs, the mulberry woman hastily struggled with one arm to turn the piano to protect herself from the angry storm of bullets.  
  
Julia, Julia, Julia. . .  
  
With a grunt, Spike launched himself from his shelter behind the bar and struggled to reach her, leaping over the destroyed furniture and stumbling over the bodies of dead men.  
  
Bullets cut the air around his head, whizzing dangerously close to his ears as he made his way up the stairs. Ducking behind the piano, he crouched, raising his gun expertly and returning the reign of bullets. Even in his anger and slight inebriation, his aim was dead on.  
  
He had just picked off most of the men coming in when he noticed, to his surprise; the mulberry woman was crouched next to him, a gun in her blood- soaked hand and rapidly returning fire. Spike cast her a side-glance. She wasn't a bad shot, and the number of armed men fell. Those eyes that belonged to Julia were pinched angrily, her mouth set in a taught line.  
  
"Bastards. . ." her voice had quickly lost the sweetness it possessed during song. "Damn them."  
  
Spike smirked in agreement as he pulled back to catch his breath, listening to the sound of bullets pelting the piano with ominous 'twangs!'. He cast a quick glance to the woman's bleeding shoulder, then to her rage-filled face, then to her trembling gun.  
  
There was no need to get involved in this messy situation. His only concern should have been getting himself out alive. This bunch of terrorists were amateurs, lousy shots and easy to escape; he didn't have to stay for her. Especially for her. Women were always trouble, but this one had a capital 'T' plastered all over her.  
  
But when he found his voice, it spoke without his brain's consent. "These guys are small fries, should be an easy way out. If you help me, I'll get you the hell out of here. What do you say?"  
  
The mulberry woman met his eye for the first time, and Spike shuddered inwardly at the piercing blue gaze that was so familiar to him. The woman gave the cowboy her own version of his smirk before replying. "I'd say lets blow this joint!"  
  
With that the two leaped up, heading for a back door behind the ratty curtains framing the stage. Spike fired a few rounds at their attackers before disappearing out the door, trying to slow their pursuit.  
  
"Shit! She's getting away!" a voice shouted. "Go, get them!"  
  
Footsteps followed hotly down the narrow corridor behind Spike and the mulberry woman just as they opened a door to a dark alleyway. They did not hesitate. Leaping out into the street, the two sprinted down the sidewalk. Spike's long legs carried him quickly around those milling about in their path, while the mulberry woman followed close behind, her blood spattering the frozen ground.  
  
A black convertible came into view just up ahead as the two skid around a corner, top down and beckoning to them invitingly. It was antique car, one of the ones that could be found in museums, named after animals, usually: Jaguar, Mustang, Firebird, etc.  
  
"There! Jump in!" The mulberry woman's voice sounded in Spike's ear. Leaping into the passenger seat, Spike crouched down and pointed his gun at the men pursuing them. The mulberry woman followed suit, digging a pair of keys out of her pocket and revving the engine. In the back of his mind, Spike reminded himself that Julia loved the vintage cars.  
  
With a smirk and a squeal of tires the sleek black car lurched forward and sped away. Gunshots rang out through the empty night as the woman's attackers leaped into several waiting vehicles and accelerated after them.  
  
"Damn!" Spike fired round after round at their pursuers, and the black convertible did its best to swerve out of harms way and set up shots for its passengers. The broken streets of Callisto were a dull blur as the car sped by, people and lights and signs becoming pastel streaks of color on a black canvas.  
  
The tires screamed as the convertible swerved hard to the right, narrowly avoiding a heavy barrage. The car spun wildly as it approached a turn, narrowly avoiding another car as the driver stalled, shocked.  
  
Risking a grin, Spike addressed the woman next to him lightly. "Y' got some moves there, woman."  
  
The mulberry woman's sterling blue eyes flickered in his direction for a moment before returning to the road. "I could say the same for you, cowboy."  
  
Their conversation was cut short as several bullets shattered the convertible's windshield, showering the pair with sharp little shards of glass. The car swerved momentarily as its driver was blinded by the flying glass, but quickly regained control and continued to flee.  
  
Growling in annoyance, the woman turned around in her seat, her face hidden by the pink curls that whipped around her in the angry winds. Her gun, held at arm's length, did all the talking for her. She fired three shots in rapid succession, filling a van's driver with holes and reaffirming her dead-on marksmanship. The van swerved crazily and crashed through an open store window, creating chaos along the streets.  
  
Several other cars scarcely avoided the crazily swerving van and continued to pursue the convertible, firing angrily out windows. Those that didn't crashed violently, a few of the heated engines bursting into hungry flames. The mulberry woman pushed the car faster, her brow furrowed and her strong expression one of determination. Spike reloaded swiftly then fired several shots at a nearing car, sending it spinning into a streetlight.  
  
Without warning the mulberry woman leaned hard on the wheel, and the car lurched to the right and onto a narrow side street, its tires shrieking against the worn pavement. The shadowing cars spun out their wheels in an attempt to follow the black convertible, but the car out in front hit an icy patch in the road and spun wildly out of control, crashing into the remaining cars and bringing a halt to the chase.  
  
Spike grinned triumphantly and turned back in his seat, relaxing in the constant purr of the engine as the convertible sped further into the night.  
  
"There'll be more of them soon. . ." The piano player's eyes began to droop tiredly and she slouched over the wheel; Spike figured probably from all the blood she had lost. Her face had become increasingly pale, like she was carved out of porcelain. "Hope you have someplace we can go."  
  
Spike's mind rolled the thought over in his head as the car sped along, driving fast in any direction so long as they stayed out of harm's way. His instincts screamed at him to leave, this dangerous berry-haired woman was obviously trouble. He should just leap out the car, thank her for the ride, and leave.  
  
Forget the fact that her song still haunted his thoughts. Forget the fact that her face was an almost perfect replica of Julia's. Forget it all, just leave! But that something that had triggered him to run to her was working itself up again, and with that Spike absently directed her to the Swordfish II.  
  
The cockpit of the monoracer was designed to hold only one person, but he didn't like the idea of throwing this injured woman in the cargo hold. It was a tight fit, but somehow they managed, the mulberry woman partially on his lap and her bloody shoulder pressed against his chest, staining his shirt as the Swordfish II leapt into the sky.  
  
Her pale face was turned away from him, watching the sky silently with Julia's eyes. Spike watched her, noting the way his front was warm and sticky from her blood. She shouldn't have been bleeding that much. Julia's eyes were clouded with weariness, if she didn't get help soon. . .  
  
'They aren't Julia's eyes,' his mind scolded him. 'Same color, same intensity, but hers are a bit bigger.'  
  
"So," he cleared his throat, claiming her attention and breaking the uneasy silence that had settled over the cockpit. "You got a name to go with that femme-fatale facade?"  
  
The mulberry woman cast him a wry smirk, her blue eyes glazing over with fatigue. "Yep. Do you?"  
  
Spike chuckled to himself. So she had gall. Before he had a chance to reply, the woman lurched forward and slumped over the controls, unconscious. Blood oozed from the wound in her shoulder and thickened the tracks down her right arm. The luxurious pink curls had fallen to the side, revealing two holes that showed clearly where a bullet had entered and left her body.  
  
"Shit." 


	4. A Family Tune

~Disclaimer:~ Hopefully you get it by now: I do not own Cowboy Bebop. But I do own Kirsche. Take her and I will beat you mercilessly with a stick.  
  
A/N: Wow. I couldn't get this chapter to flow like I wanted, and after much revising I'm still not pleased with it. Oh well. Please, please REVIEW!  
  
ALSO: I had read the whole 'magic word' scene with Edward somewhere, and it was so cute I had to use it! Credit where credit is due.  
  
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A Family Tune  
  
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It was quite an effort to get the mulberry woman safely out of the cockpit, but after fifteen minutes of struggling Spike finally managed to carry her out of the hanger. She weighed more than her slender figure let on.  
  
'Note to self: if you value your life, never let her hear you say that.' Spike rolled his eyes as he half carried-half dragged the mulberry woman through the hatch, heading into what Faye called the 'lounge'.  
  
The Bebop was originally an interplanetary trawler, designed to catch fish on Ganymede and transport them under refrigeration throughout the solar system. Later purchased by Jet, the large ship was retrofitted with a new high-powered communications system and larger engines to aid in bounty hunting.  
  
The Bebop had been Spike and Jet's home base for all their operations, and also served as a home for those who have nowhere else to go (explaining Faye's convenient stays). Though the ship was large, the crew generally resided in the stern, as the rest of the ship mainly consisted of cargo holds and refrigeration units.  
  
Jet and Faye were currently loafing around watching an old soap opera on the temporarily fixed vid-screen, raising their voices to argue over the actors onscreen.  
  
"C'mon, Jet, just for a little while? Ganymede has some excellent casinos, it'd just be for a little while."  
  
"No way. Knowing you, you'd gamble all our last woolongs away."  
  
"But we don't have any woolongs."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
The sound airy sound of the hatch swinging open interrupted their argument, and both bounty hunters blinked blankly at Spike's rather dramatic entrance. Faye's jaw dropped and Jet's eyebrows shot up in surprise, both at a loss for words as the confusion sunk in.  
  
The music from the television swelled in suspense, a woman had just found out the results of a pregnancy test. The camera zoomed in on each stunned face, eventually panning in on the face of the father. Jet cleared his throat uncomfortably, trying to break the tight silence as gently as possible.  
  
'My my, isn't this awkward. . .' the older man thought, absently rubbing the back of his neck and trying hard not to stare at the pretty woman none- too-gracefully slumped in Spike's arms. Luckily for him, Spike broke the momentary tension with a trademark smirk.  
  
"Miss me?"  
  
"Gee, Spike, successful hunt? Men, so primitive. Don't tell me you resorted to Neanderthal traditions and whacked her over the head before dragging her back to your cave, eh, lunkhead?" Faye commented snidely. Spike merely shrugged, his brain snapping a comeback automatically.  
  
"Nah, women are always trouble. But if I was going to bash someone over the head, don't worry, it'd be you, wench." His lips curled into a condescending smirk at her scowl.  
  
"You try and I'll fill you full of holes, you poofy-haired jackass!"  
  
It had always been thus with Spike and Faye. The shrew and the lunkhead. A snarl and a curse, always bickering like spoiled children. Thank God, Jet had always been the one who was levelheaded (sort of). Standing and drawing himself up to tower over the others, he peered down on them in an authoritative manor, giving both the shrew and the lunkhead a stern glare.  
  
"Come on, you two! Grow up," he growled, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "We have bigger matters to deal with. Set her down here, Spike." The bearded man stood and motioned toward the lumpy old couch. His face was a mask of discomfort, but he managed to keep his voice even. "We'll fix her wounds for her."  
  
Spike made a mental note not to make any comments about Jet's cooking for a while. Just as he had situated the woman on the flat cushions, a familiar young voice rang vociferously through the empty halls of the Bebop, and a head of bright red hair emerged from the kitchen.  
  
"Spike-person's back!" the childish face squealed, dancing from the kitchen to wrap its arms around his legs. Spike gave Edward the same indifferent stare he had given her for the past year, hoping to deter her unwavering attention, but to no avail.  
  
"Did Spike-person bring Edward a souvenir?"  
  
"No, just this chick," Faye interjected, pointing to the cataleptic woman on the couch.  
  
Releasing the long legs, Ed bounced up close to the couch, peering into the sleeping face of the mulberry woman with unbridled curiosity. Her wide amber eyes blinked twice as her mouth formed a little 'o' of questioning.  
  
"Edward has seen this lady-person before, Ed thinks so, yes! Lady-ma'am with hair of pink, Tomato tells Edward her Bebop link!"  
  
Faye and Spike met bored glances and shrugged in unison. Ed was Ed. No use rattling your brain trying to figure her out. Pulling her goggles down over her eyes, Ed raced out of the lounge in search of her laptop, which she had dubbed "Tomato" while a plump little Welsh Corgi followed at her heels, barking in agreement. Edward's voice could be heard down the corridors as she hunted for Tomato.  
  
"Let's go, Ein, Tomato HO!"  
  
Jet shook his head before inspecting the mulberry woman's wounds carefully and with a professional air, gently peeling back her blood soaked sleeve and moving it over her shoulder so that he could better see the bullet hole. As he did so, the woman began to revive, screwing her eyes shut in pain and weakly tossing her head to the side. Faye approached the woman, leering at her with amusement dancing in her jade eyes.  
  
"Hey, you all right?" she asked good-naturedly. Spike snorted. Jet sighed in annoyance. The mulberry woman squinted up at the motley trio, blinking in confusion. She sat up, wincing as pain shot through her bloodied arm.  
  
"This probably goes without saying, but where the hell am I?"  
  
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *  
  
One long explanation later, the crew of the Bebop carefully interrogated the mulberry woman. Why had she been on Callisto? She was hiding. From who? The men chasing her. What did those men want, anyways?  
  
The woman snorted and muttered, "Sorry, classified."  
  
Faye grinned and sat back on the horribly discolored couch, watching the berry-haired woman inquisitively. "Okay, here's an easy one: who are you?"  
  
"Kirsche. My name is Kirsche. It's German for 'cherry'. I'm from Mars, I think. Can't remember, but I think that's where I was born, or maybe it was Ganymede," the mulberry woman told them. Faye had to admit; the woman sure looked like a cherry, what with the handfuls of pink curls bouncing on her shoulders and what not.  
  
Jet frowned. Kirsche. The name sounded so familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where he had heard it. It was vaguely on the tip of his tongue, but just out of reach. But the mulberry woman had no intention of pausing in her verbal tirade so he mentally dismissed it. Damn, women love to hear themselves talk, don't they?  
  
Jet had carefully stitched the two bullet holes back together, but Kirsche's shirt was so stiff with dried blood that she had to take it off. Faye had offered to let Kirsche borrow one of her tops, but Kirsche politely declined. The rather revealing and provocative clothes that Faye owned really weren't much better than sitting around in her bra.  
  
Luckily, Spike gave her one of his old shirts to wear. It was a few sizes too big and came down to her knees, but Kirsche smiled and thanked him profusely, turning up the yellow collar like she had seen Spike wear his.  
  
As she chatted happily with the rest of the Bebop crew, Spike began to realize what a huge contrast there was between the mulberry woman and his Julia. It almost made him feel. . . disappointed.  
  
Sure, they had the same face and carried themselves with the same cool, confident air, but Kirsche was much more bouncy and cheery, with a child- like innocence that reminded him of Edward. He chuckled humorlessly at that. She wielded a gun with almost as much skill and deadly accuracy as he. Hmph, some innocent child.  
  
Julia had an unmistakable dangerous elegance, with a lilting laugh saved for special occasions. He had been remembering little details like that ever since he had met the pianist, and he found himself thinking of her more than he had in the past three years.  
  
Edward unceremoniously popped in from time to time. Her first encounter with Kirsche was rather amusing, if Spike could say so himself. With a glazed look covering her tan face, Edward zoomed into the lounge, arms out in front of her and making car noises. "Vrrrrooooom!"  
  
The red-headed kid had quickly latched onto one of the pianist's muscular calves, resting her chin on the woman's knees and looking up with enormous amber eyes. "Kirsche-person, hi!" So she had been listening in on the conversation.  
  
"That's Ed," Jet indicated the girl attached to her legs. Kirsche gave Ed a nervous smile, her face a mask of confusion.  
  
"Who? Ed?"  
  
"Me. Ed is me!" Edward grinned broadly, squeezing Kirsche's legs tightly. Kirsche tried to lift a limb out of the kid's grasp, but Edward held on happily. The mulberry woman patted the top of the kid's head tentatively, loosing the circulation in her feet.  
  
"Hey Ed, do you mind letting go?"  
  
"Magic word," Edward told her. Kirsche blinked in confusion, before Jet explained that the kid just wanted her to say 'please'. Kirsche gave Edward a playfully critical look, hands on her hips in mock irritation.  
  
"What are you, the manor's police?"  
  
Edward smiled at that. "Yes! Edward is the manor's police!"  
  
She removed one hand from the woman's legs and brought it to her mouth as if she were talking into a walkie-talkie. "Chhrrrt! Magic word! Chhrrrt!"  
  
"Please release my legs. They've fallen asleep."  
  
Ed came back several times throughout the evening, sometimes with Tomato on her head and sometimes carrying a very annoyed Ein by his back paws and once with a bowl of what three weeks ago used to be mashed potatoes. Not long after Ed had finished off the greening bowl of mush, a strangled gurgle broke through the conversation and Kirsche patted her stomach, blushing slightly.  
  
"Heh heh, guess it's been a while since I've eaten anything halfway decent. . ." she mumbled in embarrassment, trying desperately to drown out her loudly protesting stomach.  
  
"Funny, same here. . ." Faye sent Jet a glare. Jet ignored it and rose from his seat and stomped off towards the kitchen, mumbling something along the lines of 'unappreciative brats. . . I make dinner. . . see if you get any. . .'  
  
Spike coughed to choke back a snicker, instead turning his attention back to Kirsche. She was tossing her head slightly in the way only women can, making her hair sway curiously. Her hair was something else; an elegant mane of wild curls everywhere, spiraling and bouncing, shiny and soft looking. He started to wonder what color it was without the dye.  
  
"Your hair's not naturally pink, is it?"  
  
He immediately mentally kicked himself. Well, that didn't come out right. What a stupid thing to ask! Apparently Kirsche thought so too, as she raised an eyebrow at him in amusement. Absently tossing her mulberry curls over her shoulders and brushing her bangs out of her eyes, she spoke, unable to hide the laughter behind her voice.  
  
"No. Is your hair naturally. . . Uh. . . fluffy?" Faye laughed aloud and gave the piano player an approving grin.  
  
"I like her already." 


	5. Cold Reed Solo

~Disclaimer:~ I don't own Cowboy Bebop, but I DO own Kirsche.  
  
A/N: Woo hoo! The story's finally starting to pull together! Review and tell me what you think. ^____^  
  
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Cold Reed Solo  
  
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'Bell peppers and Beef. Again. Is that all the food we have on this damn ship?!' Faye thought sourly, leaning back in the chair and wincing at the awful taste in her mouth. Blech. Jet's cooking had definitely gotten worse. Maybe later she'd swallow some of the dust-bunnies that had taken over the space beneath the couch to get the nasty taste out of her mouth.  
  
The sleeping form of Spike was sprawled out lazily on said couch, as usual, arms cocked at his neck and a cigarette held loosely between his lips as he digested his 'food'. The fact that it tasted like burnt plastic mixed with God-only-knows what else didn't seem to bother him, or disturb what looked like a very deep sleep.  
  
Kirsche, however, quite enjoyed the meal. It was better than the slop she'd eaten on Callisto, anyways. She sat on the steel coffee table across from Spike, long legs curled under her and watching some old movie on the static-ridden vid-screen.  
  
They had already watched some weird movie called 'The Lone Ranger', which Edward had been dying to see, and some other old movies that included 'Indiana Jones', the entire 'Star Wars' trilogy, and some other film with a suave British spy who single-handedly saved the world over and over again.  
  
Half way during the movie marathon, Kirsche had looked back at Spike to see if he was actually paying attention. He wasn't. Lounging comfortably behind her and looking half asleep, Spike maintained an aloof languor that reminded her of a cat she had once. She told him so.  
  
"You remind me of a cat, a tiger-striped cat."  
  
Spike looked up in surprise, blinking at her in mild puzzlement. "Huh?"  
  
Kirsche continued, smiling brightly. "Yes. You, my friend, are a tiger-striped cat." "I hate cats." Spike lay his head back down lazily, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling and not bothering to watch Kirsche's expression change to one of happy inquisitiveness to one somewhere between annoyance and amusement.  
  
He sighed. "And what animal, pray tell, would you be?"  
  
Kirsche chuckled dryly and winked at him. "I don't know, a minx, eh? Now shush, another movie's coming on."  
  
This movie was very strange, a sad one about a pair of lovers who were never meant to be. There was a girl who was killed and her lover had died to be with her. Another girl loved him but knew he never loved her so she had to live knowing that he never would. It was originally in another language and the dubbing was awful, but it was still such a sorrowful story that Kirsche couldn't help but sniffle at their tragedy as she inattentively picked at the dried blood on her arms.  
  
Faye watched her from her chair. The movie was just an old romance, nothing special, and Faye was getting extremely bored. She couldn't see how the mulberry woman was so captivated with it.  
  
"Y'know, if you want you could go and take a shower to scrub off some of that blood. The bandages will dry, and you look like you could use a hot one."  
  
Kirsche smiled gratefully and nodded, allowing Faye to lead her around the Bebop in search of clean towels and new soap. She noted silently that blood was continuing to seep through the fresh bandage and staining it bright red beneath her shirt; maybe a shower would be good before the rest of the Bebop noticed.  
  
Finally, Faye led her to the bathroom, warning her that the showerhead had a tendency to fall off and that the knobs didn't always work. The mulberry woman nodded absently and headed in; loaded down with a thin towel and a bar of soap.  
  
After a minute, she finally got the hot water to work, so she stripped down and stepped inside the rusty shower. Heaving an appreciative sigh as the hot water eased her aching muscles better than any massage and rinsed her clean of the gritty blood and sweat, she sat down on the warm tiles on the floor of the shower, letting the water pelt her face and body.  
  
In the main room, Spike could hear the thrum of the shower running in the bathroom. It was probably Faye, using up all the hot water again. And he'd be damned if she left any left for the rest of the ship. That shrew could be so unbelievably and stupidly selfish sometimes.  
  
With a smirk, Spike rose from the couch, depositing his cigarette in a random ashtray as he went. The tall, lanky cowboy slunk into the kitchen, peeking in first to make sure that no one was around before turning both knobs on the sink as high as the could go. Water poured out violently and steamed down the drain, and Spike grinned in smug satisfaction.  
  
'Three, two, one.'  
  
A piercing feminine scream rent the calm sleepy quiet of the Bebop and echoed through the walls. Jet stumbled out of his bonsai room, carrying one of the tiny potted trees in his robotic arm and holding a pair of dangerous looking hedge clippers in his other. He burst clumsily into the kitchen, followed by a disgruntled looking Faye. Her short violet hair was in disarray her eyes had dark circles around them.  
  
"Who. Woke. Me. Up. You. Bastard. Spike." Faye grumbled sleepily. Spike blinked in surprise. If Faye wasn't in the shower, then who. . .  
  
His thoughts were cut off when their very irritated mulberry haired guest entered the kitchen, draped in a thin, damp towel and dripping water everywhere. Her berry-colored curls drooped and sagged to her waste and hung in angry-looking snarls around her face.  
  
'Nope,' Spike thought to himself as he backed away from Kirsche's enraged expression and balled fists. 'Definitely not Julia.'  
  
He had never actually seen Julia get mad before, but now he would have bet all the woolongs in the world that if she ever did, she would be scarier than the inner circle of Hell.  
  
Spike held up his hands disarmingly, but Kirsche's death glare continued full force. Her voice was strained, as if she was clenching her jaw. "You. . . LUNKHEAD!!!"  
  
"Lunk-head, lunk-head, bunk bed, Spike-person's dead. . ." Edward sang happily and clacked away on Tomato in the other room, using her toes as well as her fingers as she surfed through numerous files with ease. Damn genius kids. . .  
  
* * * * *  
  
The digital clock by her borrowed bed blinked 2:31 AM. An eerie blue electric glow dimly lit the small room, accompanied only by the constant hum of the Bebop as it coursed through space. The mulberry woman sat up in bed, her long muscular legs curled under her comfortably as she stared into Tomato's glowing screen. Good thing Edward was a sound sleeper. She would never know Tomato ever left her side.  
  
The mulberry woman was still wearing the shirt that Spike had given her, and her unruly pink curls were tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She had snuck into the Bebop's meager supplies and taken a fresh bandage, replacing her blood-saturated one on her own without the crew's knowledge. Having slipped herself a few pills to ward off the lethargy that came with blood loss, she found herself unable to sleep and thus decided to put the late hours alone to use.  
  
Kirsche smirked to herself as her nimble piano fingers opened various files, until finally she opened the window she was looking for. A man with vindictive yellow eyes and long, wispy locks of white hair appeared on the glowing screen. His face was hidden by shadows that threw themselves over his face, but just the image and the name that went with it was enough to confirm it was he.  
  
She gave him her most arrogant smirk at his stoic expression, biting back the fear that mounted in the back of her mind and whispering into Tomato's microphone so that she wouldn't wake the Bebop's crew.  
  
"Greetings, Vicious," she chirped softly. The assassin growled back at her, the screen picking up his annoyance quite clearly.  
  
"I gave you a job, McMae, I expected it to be done by now."  
  
The mulberry woman waved her hand flippantly. "Yes, yes, I'm working on it. I'm on his ship at this very moment so keep your voice down."  
  
Vicious' eyes blinked in mild surprise, but quickly changed to a mask of irritation. He was wary of the fellow mercenary. Though her reputation marked her as a woman of her word and a willing slave to her job, something about her seemed amiss. She was too careless, a mere child with a pretty face.  
  
"The next time you call I expect Spike Spiegel to be dead. You hear me, McMae?"  
  
Kirsche snorted indignantly. Usually her jobs let her call the shots, but the Red Dragon Syndicate was known for being power-hungry. "Sure thing, Vishy. You'll have his head on a silver platter by this time tomorrow night. However, I can't talk now, just called to give you an update."  
  
The man's eyes darkened dangerously, causing a shudder to run down the woman's spine. "Good. Your payment, as discussed, will be sent to your residence on Callisto. Oh, and one more thing, Kirsche, if you value your life you will address me as Vicious. You are expendable. Keep that in mind."  
  
The man's face became a white dot as he ended the transmission, leaving Kirsche scowling at Tomato's empty screen. Whatever compelled her to accept this job, she would never know.  
  
Vicious more than lived up to his namesake, and she had spent most of her career avoiding the growing gang-wars between syndicates. But somehow, all of that was forgotten as the number of woolongs offered grew higher, and higher, and higher. . . Ah, she remembered now. That's why she took the job.  
  
She scoffed at that. Maybe the reason she had taken the job was out of surprise that the legendary assassin and leader of the Red Dragon Syndicate, Vicious, would actually hire another assassin to do his work for him. It just didn't quite fit.  
  
The way she figured it, it would have been more his style to go after this Spike-character himself, especially since it seemed to be so important to him.  
  
She quickly deleted the history of her conversation with Vicious off the computer, covering up her tracks so that Edward wouldn't accidentally stumble upon it with her constant hacking.  
  
Closing the laptop and setting it on the nightstand beside her bed, Kirsche leaned back into the cool sheets, yawning widely and pressing her head deep into a pillow that smelt faintly of cigarette smoke. The mulberry woman smirked as she slowly slipped into a dreamless sleep. This would be easy. 


	6. The Hidden Melody

A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates, man, it's been a while! Hope you like this chappie, reviews are good.  
  
~Disclaimer:~ I do not own Cowboy Bebop. If I did, a few choice blondes would be burning in the crimson flames of HELL!  
  
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The Hidden Melody  
  
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"Edward has found the treasure! Ed has found it, Captain Ein!!" Edward's goggles glowed with the light from Tomato (which she had reclaimed from Kirsche) as she ceased her furious typing, leaping up to grab the honey- colored dog and dance with him. Ein gave a disgruntled whine as Ed twirled him around, giggling.  
  
Jet looked up from his own laptop, watching as Edward danced around with the dog, plainly oblivious of his presence. "What'd you find, Ed? A new bounty?"  
  
Ed shook her head playfully; her wide amber eyes trained on the bearded man as she twirled around the room, mimicking the moves of a graceful ballerina with outlandish flare. "Nope no-o-o-ope! Ed knows why Kirsche-cherry is familiar."  
  
The girl paused in her dance to point at the computer screen. "Ed has found Kirsche-person! Kirsche-person-piano-lady has her picture online, see?" She held up a hand to her chin thoughtfully. "Edward thinks that Kirsche- person's picture does not look like Kirsche-person."  
  
Jet stood up and approached Tomato with curiosity while Edward dropped Ein to dance somewhere else. 'What the-'  
  
Immediately Jet froze, maximizing the window and staring in shock. He scanned the page quickly, than again. "So that's where I heard it before. Spike! Faye! You might want to check this out!"  
  
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"Name: Kirsche McMae, a.k.a. 'Three-Strikes-Mae' Age: 24 Height: 5 feet 5 inches Weight: 135 pounds Hair/Eye Color: Original color unknown/Blue Criminal Record: Over 40 accounts of murder, 12 accounts of Grand Larceny, and possession of deadly weapons. Bounty (Dead or Alive): 29 million woolongs Last seen: Chain 15, Ganymede Other Info: A well know mercenary, McMae is known on the streets as Three- Strikes-Mae because her victims always go down with 3 bullets. She has a tattoo of a star on her left shoulder and a scar on her lower back. Thought to be responsible for the assassination of Mayor Jonathan Wimble of Europa and the thefts of a dangerous chemical prototype and an experimental explosive. All other information ISSP has withdrawn as 'classified'."  
  
Faye read the bounty posting aloud, her emerald eyes growing wide at the 29 million woolong bounty and the long list of offending crimes. There were several small pictures was posted along with the text, grim mug shots of the mulberry woman. Ed was right. The photographs looked nothing like the cherry on board their ship.  
  
Some of the pictures the woman's hair was a bright blue color, others, a pale green. Her face was hidden by the thick curls, and all that showed were those ruby lips curled in a sadistic grin. But there was one photograph that stuck out in particular.  
  
The woman in the picture looked like a wretched villain from a horror movie, crazed and bloodthirsty in a zombie-like condition completely void of any human emotions. The stranger in the photograph had long straw- colored tresses that hung everywhere, her curls were flattened and tangled, and her bangs were mussed and cast angry shadows over her face. Her sterling blue eyes were sunken in, with tired dark circles around them. Her face was twisted into a sinister smirk, half way between a snarl and a smug grin.  
  
Spiked gaped at the page. The woman with Julia's face. was an assassin? It was definitely she; those endless eyes glared at him from the screen and bore into holes they had already made back on Callisto. "No way."  
  
"Where is Kirsche, anyways?" Jet asked, peering around.  
  
"She told me she'd be in her room for a while, writing a song. Musicians are very private about that stuff," Faye shrugged, peering into Tomato's screen blankly and watching the words 'Dead or Alive' blink in red under the woman's name. "I still can't believe she's a mercenary, and with an enormous bounty at that."  
  
"You two have been very chummy lately, and since when have musically inept people like you known anything about musicians, Faye?" Spike asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke.  
  
"I'm not musically inept and I've always known about musicians. Everyone knows how moody they can get when pouring their soul into a song. Don't you ever watch M.T.V.?" Faye sniffed indignantly. The corners of her mouth pulled into a grin. "Besides, anyone who can pummel you so brutally within the first few hours of knowing you deserves my companionship and utmost loyally."  
  
Spike groaned at the memory, rubbing his head ruefully. God, no one thought to tell him it was Kirsche in the shower instead of Faye. Damn, Kirsche had a mean right hook. and a left. Wait, he remembered seeing the star tattoo on her arm that evening as she assaulted him. Kirsche McMae.  
  
"So are we going to take her in?" Jet's question seemed to startle the group, and they turned to give him an unreadable look. Those 29 million woolongs were quite tempting.  
  
"S' funny, I was wondering the same thing."  
  
The mechanical 'click' of a cocked gun hammer echoed dryly through the corridors of the Bebop, and Spike could feel the muzzle of a gun pressing lightly against his back. Russet eyes turned to meet sharp blue ones, Julia's eyes. The crew watched the mulberry woman smirk, holding the gun at arm's length. She wore a pair of blood spattered black jeans and the shirt Spike had given her, a borrowed cigarette (she had found a pack in the shirt's breast pocket) balancing on her lip.  
  
"So, how much am I going for?" Kirsche asked neutrally, as if asking about something as trivial as the weather. Jet gave her a stern look, looming over the small woman.  
  
"29 million," Jet told her, his eyes warily regarding the gun. Damn, that bitch was crafty! She had caught all of them off guard and unarmed, and though he could easily overpower her the gun in her hands kept the tables turned.  
  
The mulberry woman tossed a lock of curls arrogantly over one shoulder, smirking insolently but keeping a steady gaze on the crew. "Is that all? Hmph. Figured I'd be worth more than that."  
  
Spike watched the mulberry woman intensely, meeting her eyes.  
  
'Weird.' Kirsche thought to herself, holding his gaze. 'I can't read anything from his eyes. it's sort of like he disconnected them from his mind so they show no emotion. I've never seen anything like it.'  
  
"What do you want, McMae?" Faye asked, unable to keep the venom out of her voice. She had helped heal this girl, for Christ's sake! And suddenly she pulls out a gun and threatens all of them? Some people had no gratitude whatsoever.  
  
The cheerful innocence that had surrounded the pianist like an aura had dissipated, and her sterling blue eyes were filled with cold malice. The child-like compassion that once made her so approachable and appealing was gone. Her sultry voice had become harsh and grating as it mumbled around the cigarette, the mulberry woman was a completely different person.  
  
"C'mon, Spike. Out to the hangar. We have business to attend to."  
  
Spike froze, staring down the muzzle of her pistol fearlessly, a look of confusion crossing his face. 'Julia, why are you doing this to me?' he asked Julia's face silently. But it was not Julia's face that smirked up at him.  
  
Jet leaned forward and made as if to grab Kirsche, but she immediately danced out of the way with an animalistic grace, reaching behind her and bringing out a second gun that had been thrust into the back of her jeans. She held it in her free hand, wrapping her slender fingers around the trigger and stopping the burly man in his tracks. Her smirk faded and her eyes narrowed in grave seriousness.  
  
"Not you. I don't want to hurt you if I don't have to. I was sent for Spike, that's it."  
  
"Really, by who?" Jet growled, clenching and unclenching his prosthetic fist as he set his jaw in anger.  
  
"It's none of your business," she spat hotly. "Look, I appreciate your hospitality and everything, but I have a job to do."  
  
Spike turned his gaze away from the mulberry woman to meet eyes with Faye. Despite the obvious indignant look on her face, he saw a carefully hidden pang of concern. Silently, their eyes held a conversation.  
  
'You dip-shit.'  
  
'What?!'  
  
'You're going to go, right?'  
  
'Yes...'  
  
'Fine. Then go. Just come back alive, lunkhead. Or I'll pawn off the 'Fish.'  
  
'You do and I haunt you until all Hell freezes over. Shrew.'  
  
'Jackass.'  
  
'Yeah, I know, I know.'  
  
'Good.'  
  
Kirsche read the silent exchange, nodding in calm understanding though holding both guns unwaveringly and tightening her grip on the triggers. Spike thrust his hands into his pockets casually as he stepped forward, coming up beside the mulberry woman. His eyes flashed for a moment, and she thought she saw in them a look of sadness, though his expression was one of cool and mild amusement. "Lets go, then."  
  
It was a silent and agonizingly long march to the hanger, the pair's footfalls clanging boisterously loud as their boots slapped against the floor of the Bebop. The footsteps reverberated in the dead silence. Jet made an attempt to follow them as Kirsche led Spike out the doors, but Faye stopped him, shaking her head.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Jet growled, jerking his arm away from her grasp. "You're not going to just let him duke it out with her, are you?!"  
  
"The moron has to handle this one on his own, Jet. No interfering." For a moment, Faye looked almost wise, that is until she added, "Besides, there's no way he can screw up on this one. Dead or Alive, remember?"  
  
Well, that didn't last long.  
  
Jet sighed, sitting tensely at the edge of the old, discolored couch, muscles taught and ready to leap to Spike's aid if suddenly needed. "So, what do you propose we do?"  
  
"We wait." 


	7. Ballad of the Siren

!!!!PLEASE READ!!!! A/N- Okay, here's the deal. I really, really dislike this fic, it's an old one that I believe no longer represents the level of literature I'm at, and thus will finish it for whoever wants to read it. HOWEVER, if I do not get word that people actually WANT the fic to stay up, I will delete it without second thought. If anyone wants to change my mind, feel free to do so. If not, look for my other stories, a few of which will be posted soon.  
  
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Ballad of the Siren  
  
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The piano woman stood across from the cowboy in the hanger under the shadow of the Swordfish, watching him earnestly. Spike stared back, hands still thrust nonchalantly into his pockets as he regarded the woman with amusement.  
  
"Here." Kirsche tossed him one of her guns, her face stoic. "I want to know. I want to know who really is the best in the business."  
  
Spike caught the weapon deftly and turned it in his hand, feeling the warm steel where her small palm had been. "Huh?"  
  
"They told me you were either the best bounty hunter in the galaxy, or the luckiest bastard alive. I want to know for myself."  
  
The lanky man gave her a lofty smirk before replying, never one to back down from a challenge. He remembered her prowess back on Callisto, and suddenly felt himself craving another taste of it. This should be fun. "Is that so?"  
  
"Damn strait," the mulberry woman returned the smirk, her playfulness returning though her familiar eyes remained cold. "Don't be afraid. Hit me with everything you've got, no holding back."  
  
She paused, and then added as an afterthought, "I'm not her."  
  
Spike tried to mask his surprise and horror with a look of confusion, but the mulberry woman caught the fleeting emotions with ease.  
  
"I'm not Julia."  
  
The words snapped through him bitterly.  
  
"H-how. . ." Spike started, his mind railing. How the hell did she know Julia? His Julia? Words caught in his throat as he started, it had been so long since anyone had spoken the name aloud. Jet, Faye, even Edward had taken pains not to speak of her. It echoed harshly through the hanger and showered down on him again and again. Julia, Julia, Julia.  
  
"Isn't it amazing what plastic surgery can do to a girl? Don't look so surprised. I know everything, Spike Spiegel," Kirsche chuckled, placing a hand on the curve of her hip and grinning triumphantly. "Everything about you, about Faye Valentine's missing past, about Jet Black's little ISSP career, even about eccentric Ed's days as Radical Edward. You four have a lot of skeletons in your closets, but I know them all."  
  
Spike suppressed a growl. He saw her now, the mulberry woman, and this woman was not his Julia. She was nothing like her, not at all. The pianist was walking on eggshells and she knew it. She was taking it upon herself to taunt him with it, smirking his supercilious smirk and throwing it in his face as if it were nothing.  
  
'Stay cool!' he ordered himself. 'Don't loose your head.' Instead he smirked, forcing a humorless laugh. "Care to join those skeletons? Because they're dead to me. All of them."  
  
The mulberry woman instantly grew cold. Her lips curled into a snarl as she spoke, the cigarette she had been smoking falling to the floor and quickly forgotten. With one fluid movement she emptied her gun, letting the bullets clatter aimlessly to the floor until there were only three left in the revolver. "Three strikes; three bullets, take one and you loose. Got it?"  
  
Spike emptied his gun in the same fashion and adopted a fighter's stance, the old sass back in his voice. "Ladies first."  
  
With that, Kirsche launched herself at him, fainting to the right before aiming a well-placed kick to his stomach with her right foot. Any other man would have lost his breath to the force of the heavy boot against his gut, but Spike merely allowed his wiry muscles to absorb the impact, neither falling nor faltering. He had her now.  
  
Kirsche looked up at him in surprise just in time to catch the deadly smile he passed her way before he sent her a left hook. His fist connected squarely with her jaw, sending her rolling out of his reach.  
  
The mulberry woman tumbled into a crouch with an almost feline agility, painfully rotating her jaw until it popped back into place. She grinned to herself, knowing that he had reined much of his strength before he hit her. "Not bad, cowboy. But you're going to have to do better than that."  
  
She sprung at him again, tensing her sinewy muscles and aiming a round house at his head. Spike ducked under her leg and sent the heel of his hand towards her nose. Kirsche dodged right and his hand past by harmlessly, cushioned by mulberry curls. Their bodies aligned simultaneously as their intense fighting continued, matching each other move for move.  
  
She felt, more than saw his attacks coming, and dodged, her fist flying in the direction of his solar plexus. He blocked it easily, grabbing her wrist and twisting it.  
  
"Dead or alive, it's your choice."  
  
The mulberry woman took the opportunity to sweep his legs out from under him with her own. She jumped back as soon as she felt his grip on her wrist lighten, crouched and gun poised with a sly grin on her face. Her words were harsh whispers, clipped with breathy precision as she fought to keep her breathing schooled. "Catch me if you can."  
  
Spike bounced back from the ground before she could make another move, leaving her mind reeling for a new attack. With a growl, Kirsche came at Spike with new aggression. Being fluid and relaxed, he found her attack pretty easy to see through and sidestepped her effortlessly.  
  
Seeing an opening, Kirsche fired one of her three rounds. Spike drew back, narrowly evading the bullet. It sliced his cheek just below his eye and sped onwards to embed itself into the wing of the Swordfish. 'Damn!' Spike growled, blood coursing down his cheek like a red tear. 'She's fast. . .'  
  
"Strike one," the mulberry woman remarked airily, almost pleased that her shot had missed. This was going to be more of a challenge than she had expected. Good.  
  
Spike growled under his breath. She was making things difficult, what a typical woman. He was much larger than her, and probably stronger, but her cunning and speed kept her one step ahead. It was like running up an escalator moving down. He wiped away the blood with the back of his hand, watching her fixedly.  
  
With a grunt he charged, hoping to take her by surprise so that he could get a clear shot. She dodged nimbly, but he took the shot anyways. The bullet passed by harmlessly, ricocheting off the floor.  
  
Kirsche ran to duck behind the vacant Red Tail, Faye's ship, using the beaten up vessel as cover while she fired another round. This time Spike was ready, and he had taken refuge behind his beloved Swordfish, allowing it to take the bullet instead of him. The mulberry woman snarled. Strike two.  
  
Meanwhile, Faye, Jet, and Edward huddled together in the common room, listening tensely to the gunshots that rang through the dead silence onboard the ship. Edward had used her hacking skills to gain the control of one of the surveillance cameras in the hanger; Jet hovered over her shoulder as she pounded mercilessly on Tomato.  
  
The fight was intense, both equally skilled and too headstrong to back down. Faye stared aimlessly out into the endless void of space out the wall of windows, watching it as the Bebop slowly coursed on its way despite the gunshots that echoed dryly throughout its corridors. Spike had to do this. Kirsche was a face from his past. Faye knew this.  
  
Though painful, she knew that he had to confront the mulberry woman before her face haunted him, eventually leading him to his demise. She was like a specter that had become flesh and blood before their very eyes, like an angel from Hell or an angelic devil. Maybe both.  
  
Emerging from her cover, Kirsche followed Spike as the cowboy continued to run, following him blindly to the back of the hanger. Without warning he halted and whirled on her, his foot catching her in the stomach and sending her to the ground. She looked up at him under a mulberry haze, her sterling blue eyes partially hidden from view by her tousled hair. He was still holding back.  
  
Spike raised his gun and fired, but the mulberry woman rolled out of harm's way, leaving the bullet to scorch the floor where she had been only moments before. They were down to a bullet each; Kirsche raised her head to meet his eyes and a wave of understanding passed between them.  
  
For a moment he thought he saw a reminiscent of Julia flicker across her constricted face, but it quickly passed as she rose from the ground and stared at him blankly. Spike returned the stare, his emotionless cinnamon eyes caressing her face and boring deep into her soul. They would settle this now, one of them would fall. No more withholding.  
  
Two shots rang out in unison, reverberating throughout the hanger in an endless reprise and shattering the tension mounting in the air. It was over, and everyone knew it was thus. For a moment, neither person stirred; their breaths held tight to their lungs in an effort to keep time from pushing them forward to an inevitable loss. Their guns trembled at arm's length, lighter in so many ways now that they'd been emptied.  
  
*~In the silence following the shots, Spike's mind began to drift over the face of the mysterious mercenary who's face was identical to his love's. She had known all along. He should have been able to see it.  
  
After having mercilessly beaten him for freezing her out of her shower, Kirsche had hastily donned his borrowed shirt and went out to the hanger for a smoke to calm her nerves. In fact, when he had caught up with her, they were standing just over there, a few feet from where he was standing now.  
  
He remembered how the blue smoke curled lazily from her lips as she released a breathy sigh, oblivious to his presence until he sauntered over and lit a cigarette off her own.  
  
"Y' didn't have to come out here to smoke. You could have stayed inside," he had told her while taking a long drag from his cigarette.  
  
He saw her nod to herself before replying, her sterling blue eyes scanning the sky vacantly. "Yeah, I figured as much. But after living with a non- smoker so long you just. get used to headin' out for a smoke. It becomes sort of a comfortable routine, and if you just keep it up for a little bit that familiarity will wear away all the anxiety."  
  
Spike had nodded in agreement, though he really couldn't relate to what she had said. He let his gaze follow hers to the stars and back, coming to rest on those glassy eyes so filled with sorrow, like her voice when she sang. They broke his heart a thousand times over, just the sight of them, and when she turned to meet his gaze he thought as if his heart would shatter. They had the stars in them, as did her lips, as if she had traveled to the sky and kept the stardust for herself.  
  
"You look at me funny," she had commented, pressing the cigarette to her lips and inhaling deeply. "Like I'm someone special. Do I resemble an old flame, maybe?"  
  
His face must have shown his surprise at her awareness, but also his amusement. Smart, strong and beautiful; a deadly combination. "Yeah, kind of. She had your eyes. . ." He had been lying. Her face was not her own. It was Julia's. "You ever had someone out there? A lover that broke your heart? Ah, of course you did. It's all over your face."  
  
She gave a humorless laugh at that, and had curled her lips into sort of a half smile as she stared out absently. "Hmph. He was a heart-trap to begin with. Handsome, dreamy smile, smart, musical, sweet, considerate, nice body. . ."  
  
Spike had interrupted her by clearing his throat, extracting a small but genuine laugh from the mulberry woman. He decided that he liked her laugh. She continued, her voice lighter than before. "Yeah, anyways, it was like we were made for each other. I was crazy for him. A regular lovesick puppy. But he had his heart somewhere else; he said and did stupid things. . ."  
  
Her voice trailed off and she turned away, her face stoic. Spike blinked, watching her for a moment and trying to find something to say that didn't sound like a cheesy quote from a sappy romance novel. "Sometimes people do stupid things 'cause they think they got to do something, just do anything sometimes."  
  
"Sometimes people do stupid things 'cause they're stupid."  
  
Spike had chuckled at that, dropping the smoldering remains of his cigarette on the floor and snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe.  
  
"It doesn't matter anymore. He's been dead for a while now. Ah well, that's life. We all have our sob stories, don't we? Something holding us to a memory." Kirsche didn't look at him again for the rest of the night, but her words suddenly sounded in his memory.  
  
"We're a lot alike, you n' me. One day, cowboy, we'll taper down to a single note and finish this blasted song. I'm sure of it." And with that she turned and headed back into the Bebop. ~*  
  
With a grunt, the mulberry woman fell, breaking the moment frozen in time and allowing Spike's lungs to release the breath that he'd been holding. Her shot had missed. His hadn't.  
  
Kirsche clutched the growing red stain on her borrowed shirt, curling into a ball and trying to keep her innards from pouring out. Luxurious mulberry curls spread out around her like a pink halo and her face once again became as pale as porcelain. Spike lowered his arm to his side, letting the gun slide from his numb fingers and drop to the floor with a dull clatter.  
  
Julia.  
  
Julia's image was slowly melting from her face, making Spike wonder if he had merely dreamed she looked like her. The mulberry woman painfully smiled up at him, her bloodied fingers gripping the hole in her stomach.  
  
Her eyes no longer cold and her face no longer stony, it was as if she was once again the woman he had met on Callisto instead of the impassive creature that had been after his blood moments earlier.  
  
He walked over in a slow procession, trying hard to avert his gaze from her bleeding abdomen. Instead, he focused his eyes on her face, which continued its agonizing smile. Her mouth moved; a pained whisper lost in the low hum of the Bebop. Spike crouched down next to the mulberry woman, reaching out to move her bangs out of her face and straining his ears to hear her hushed voice.  
  
"S-strike three," she murmured, eyes closing sleepily. Her breathing was uneven and shallow, what was going on? She looked so tired, her eyes adapting a jaded glaze. She hadn't been that sluggish before. He tried to move her to her back, but she cried out when his hand touched her injured shoulder. It was still bleeding.  
  
"Damnit! What's wrong with you? Jet stitched it up!" Spike's voice was growing frantic as he tried to pull the shirt down over her shoulder to look at the old wound. "Jesus, woman, stay with me! Don't die yet, you hear? I'll go get help. . ."  
  
The mulberry woman shook head gently, silencing him.  
  
"More secrets, secrets, secrets." She was starting to sound like Edward. Spike tensed as one of her hands unclamped itself from her stomach and rose to her breast pocket. Mistrust. Fear. His muscles wound like springs; he was like a wild animal unsure of whether to pounce or flee.  
  
But the mulberry woman only flashed him a brilliant smile, reaching into the pocket and pulling forth a slightly crinkled cigarette box. He took it from her and shook it in his hands, feeling the weight of a few cigarettes still left inside. The edges of the pack were stained with bloody fingerprints, and a flicker of guilt wrote itself across his stoic face.  
  
"You didn't hold back. Good for you. I'm free of it all, Spike, I found the coda at last. . ." her voice was distant as she peered up at him through hooded eyes. "Now I know. Thank you."  
  
Her eyes flashed to his for a moment, those pretty sky-colored eyes glazing over again. This time, he saw Kirsche. Her face. Her eyes. Her smile. And no one else's. It was strange, like seeing her for the first time, seeing her without Julia's memory behind every action, without Julia's face shadowing her own. And he saw. She was beautiful. Those eyes were so sad, filled with something he couldn't quite describe. A mixture of pain and bleak contentment, swirling together in the depths of sterling blue.  
  
Then the crystal orbs fluttered close and her breathing became even again. Her elegant face relaxed and she lay in peaceful stillness, a blood-soaked hand lying near her face with spindly crimson fingers curled gracefully towards her cheek. 


	8. Epilogue

!!!!PLEASE READ!!!! A/N- Okay, here's the deal. I really, really dislike this fic, it's an old one that I believe no longer represents the level of literature I'm at, and thus will finish it for whoever wants to read it. HOWEVER, if I do not get word that people actually WANT the fic to stay up, I will delete it without second thought. If anyone wants to change my mind, feel free to do so. If not, look for my other stories, a few of which will be posted soon.  
  
~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!  
  
Lullaby for the Shattered Soul  
  
~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!  
  
Spike sat in the lounge, sprawled across the couch with his arms cocked at his head, staring aimlessly at the ceiling and smoking one of his last few cigarettes. He had been doing a lot of that since Kirsche left. In fact, he hadn't moved from the couch in days.  
  
Jet had taken the mulberry woman away to the authorities while she was still unconscious, but she passed away before ever reaching Ganymede.  
  
He told Spike that she kept babbling about different things, about how she took on the impossible job of killing the un-killable from Vicious for reasons she couldn't remember, about how she knew Edward was really a lot smarter than everyone gave her credit for, about how she looked like someone Spike knew.  
  
She also talked quite a lot about smoking outside and some kind of rare medical condition called hemophilia of X-chromosome and pills she stopped taking. She had lost an awful lot of blood, and Jet figured that she was just delirious. But she kept talking, until she finally died, smirk on her face as she mouthed the words 'now you know'.  
  
The crew did their best to leave Spike alone in the days that past, unable to read him and unwilling to break him from the funk he was in. Even Faye stopped nagging him; she even left him a bit of hot water after she showered. It was an uneasy stillness that lasted millions and millions of years. The whole ship seemed on edge, floating by precariously as if something inexplicable would happen if anyone made any sudden movements.  
  
"Damn," Spike cursed as his cigarette burned down to his fingers. "That was my last one. . ."  
  
He deposited the remains of the nicotine on the floor, allowing it to smolder before burning itself out. He sat up, searching his pockets for another box. On an off chance, Spike glanced up at the steel coffee table to see a near empty cigarette pack lying discarded there. He picked it up and studied it for a moment. It had been squashed, and there were a few red smudges on the edges where the mulberry woman had left her mark.  
  
'Ironic,' Spike mused. 'Go figure that this would be the last pack on the ship, and with only a few last. . .'  
  
He was surprised when he opened the box. He figured by the weight of the thing that there'd be around three or four cigarettes waiting for him, but what he found was one half smoked cigarette and a suspiciously folded piece of paper stuffed inside.  
  
Curiously, he pulled the paper from the constricting box, its corners curling from the mishandling it had obviously suffered. He brought it under his nose, inhaling the scent of sweet nicotine and something saccharine he couldn't quite place. With the utmost care, Spike's nimble fingers unwrapped the thin paper and smoothed it out in his lap. The page was titled 'The Belonging Place' in smooth handwriting.  
  
The paper itself was covered with long elegant curls and flourishes, some of which he recognized as music notes and different musical symbols. They really didn't mean anything to him, since he couldn't read them, so he continued to scan the page until he found, written in small, graceful script, lyrics.  
  
/Endless falling  
  
Off the edge of the world.  
  
Somewhere, walking  
  
With no place left to turn.  
  
Don't stop the bleeding,  
  
Just hold me for a moment, you're  
  
Lost in this feeling.  
  
You can't break away, you are  
  
Gone./  
  
He recognized the sadness in the libretto, and in his head he saw her star- kissed lips forming them, all the sorrow in her full voice singing them out as she absently tossed her mulberry curls over her shoulder.  
  
/You are waiting  
  
For something yet to come,  
  
But what's waiting  
  
When the longing is gone?  
  
Can you feel it beating,  
  
Sick but alive and it's  
  
Lost in this feeling.  
  
You can't break away, you are  
  
Gone./  
  
She was there, seated at that scratched up old upright piano in Callisto, her slender fingers splayed across the endless rows of black and white. Her form was hunched over so that the pink curls hid her sad face, her face that belonged to no one else.  
  
/Take the missing piece,  
  
And put it away  
  
So the world can't see  
  
That you're not the same.  
  
You feel so misplaced and  
  
The tears fall free from this  
  
Dead belonging place./  
  
And suddenly he realized, almost dropping the paper as he stared blankly at his hands. The song was for him.  
  
/Listen for the  
  
Sound of stars fading out.  
  
Watch them flicker  
  
Filling your mind with doubts.  
  
Can't seem to comfort  
  
The shattered façade, you are  
  
Lost in this feeling.  
  
You can't break away, you are  
  
Gone./  
  
He saw parts of himself in her lyrics, his life, his sorrows, his misguided anger and the things that he had lost. He saw her in between the lines, smirking his smirk and giving him bite-sized philosophies that he didn't understand.  
  
/Take the missing piece  
  
And put it away  
  
So the world can't see  
  
That you're not the same.  
  
You feel so misplaced and  
  
The tears fall free from this  
  
Dead belonging place./  
  
He closed his eyes, her words ringing in his ears.  
  
"One day, cowboy, we'll taper down to a single note and finish this blasted song. . . "  
  
She'd found the note she was looking for; maybe one day she'd sing it for him so that he could find it, too. She was always free from the Goddamn melody, not a minx but a bird. He was a tiger-striped cat, trapped forever with the curse of immortality. Maybe he was immortal because he was already dead. That was it. He was dead, but not free. He would be, though, when his nine lives were up.  
  
". . .I'm sure of it. . ."  
  
/Take the missing piece  
  
And put it away  
  
So the world can't see  
  
That you're not the same.  
  
You feel so misplaced and  
  
The tears fall free from this  
  
Dead belonging place./  
  
There was a short caption at the bottom of the page that read 'Maybe it's all just one flight down... Find your exit and don't look back. ~ Kirsche'.  
  
Spike folded the paper vigilantly and placed it in his shirt pocket, the one next to his holster. It would be safe there.  
  
After a moment, Spike stood, stretching the cramped muscles in his back and shoulders and twirling the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. Faintly, he could see poppy-colored marks around the end; the lightest trace of lipstick. He brought the nicotine to his own lips, reaching for his lighter before he reconsidered.  
  
Leaving the empty pack discarded on the steel coffee table, Spike headed out to the hanger for a smoke.  
  
MAYBE SOMEDAY, SPACE COWBOY. . .  
  
` ` ` ` A/N- Wow, finally met the end. Thanks for reading! 


End file.
